


Boxers

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Road to Home [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Consensual Violence, Dark, F/M, Gunplay, M/M, Masochism, Multi, Other, Prostitution, Roleplay, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, John looks for comfort while Sherlock seeks punishment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boxers

**Author's Note:**

> This story is full of graphically described, purposely-provoked violence (masochism, but not in the realm of consensual "play") against a person in a compromised mental/emotional state. It could be triggering for past victims of violence, including verbal abuse, self-harm, or partner-violence.

The Blog of John H Watson:

Sunday morning. Mood: Haven’t got but one anymore. Privacy Setting: PRIVATE.

Pretty girl asleep in my bed—wild, curly hair like on a kids’ doll; skin the colour of tea with almost-enough milk—cannot for the life of me remember her name. Keely? Kerry? Checked my phone; no new numbers, but why would there be? Don’t need to ask for a number when we’re already in the cab on the way to my flat (thought women today were smarter than to go to the flat of a man they’ve just met. Guess I seem trustworthy. May have told her I’m a policeman???) Will try to get by with something generic—Gorgeous, Luv, Sweetheart—and hope she won’t linger. I’ll have her put her name and number in my phone before she leaves, just to satisfy my curiosity (Kelly? She doesn’t look like a Kelly. Could it be Anna?), then delete it after she goes. I’ve so quickly become a bad man, only getting worse. Need to stop this. Really must. It doesn’t even help.

I have never been so lonely in all my life.

***

Took a break there to have a cry in the loo. Pathetic mess, wish I could credit it to overhanging drunkenness but can already feel the aftermath coming on. Feel like all my seams have split and I can’t hold anything in me at all; everything just must seep out, constantly, always. Think I’d be empty by now.

I think the girl’s name might be Megan. Or Maggie. At any rate, if she doesn’t wake up in thirty minutes, I’ll bash about the place a bit, then tell her I have a meeting or an appointment or something. Yes, on a Sunday. I’ll say I’m taking my landlady to church.

Tomorrow. Sherlock will have been in the ground a month, tomorrow. I was thinking that maybe I would be better off now (maybe would have some of that stuff they call “closure,” maybe wouldn’t drink so much, maybe wouldn’t be slutting around with every pretty girl who’ll fall for my line, which so far, is all of them) if I’d seen him—in the morgue, in the casket. But then again, every day I come back here (home? not anymore) to Baker Street, and I swear I can see Sherlock-shaped holes everywhere he should be. I need no more evidence than that—certainly not an indelible memory of his broken body and forever-closed eyes—to prove to me that he is gone. He is as solidly “gone” from this place as he ever was “here” or “there.” His absence has weight, and height, and mass. It gets in my way. It is far, far too heavy for me to push aside.

The pretty girl stirs. I think I pleased her; I hope so. She was lovely: no sharp edges, emitted wonderful noises at all the right times, and her perfume smelled like lilacs. I hope I never see her again.

See that? Bad man. Getting worse. Seams all undone, everything spilling out.

Will bid goodbye to the girl, read the paper, go for a walk (not to the pub), maybe get a haircut. Today, will not go in his bedroom. Will not open his wardrobe. Will definitely not sit on his bed. Will not drink anything stronger than tea before ~~6pm~~ 4pm.

***

Into my phone, the pretty girl put, “Miss Saturday Night,” and a number missing a digit. So she hoped not to see me again, either. Which is what I wanted but still feels like a punch in the gut. Head feels like it is wrapped in barbed wire. Could murder a bacon sandwich. Absolutely will not drink before ~~2pm~~ lunch.

Of course, tomorrow will be worse.

-*-*-*-

Nightclubs are, invariably, an agony. Vapid, dull-witted people tarted up in costumes they imagine to represent their best, most alluring selves but which sell them out second by second as sadsacks trying too hard to become the object of someone’s—anyone’s—desire. The sour, stomach-churning aroma of mixed anxiety-sweat, stale cigarette breath, and spilled alcohol make a constant assault on the nose; nevermind the sensate gang-rape of strobing lights, badly-mixed cocktails, and the relentless “musical” throb that necessitates shouting and dislocates the internal organs by microscopic measures.

But here is a door to a quieter, outdoor place (fenced in, lest the lowing herds wander off before paying the bar tab). And here is sweet relief from the visual chaos (and a reduction--though not absence--of the thudding, aural endurance test). And here is a brick wall to pose against: attractively slouched, one foot lifted behind, sole flat against the wall, knee jittering—the universal body language of the young hustler. Here are tight, low-slung jeans and a clinging t-shirt advertising one as a devotee of something old enough to be almost quaint, radical enough to indicate edge. Here are heavy-lidded, black-lined eyes barely discernible beneath a carefully arranged waterfall of overlong fringe dyed ink-black with streaks of ink-blue. And here is an unlit cigarette held carelessly, artfully aloft. Got a light, Mister?

And here is a man well aware of his charisma, who is handsome in the way that makes everyone forgive him before he has even done wrong. Which he always will, because one only need look in his eyes to see that he is crueler than he ought to be, and that his cruelty is not thoughtless or casual, but crafty and designed for his own pleasure. He has a book of matches, of course (also cash, pills, and more than one condom), which require the smoker to steady his hand with their own, making immediate, intimate physical contact. He is no amateur.

“Haven’t seen you here before.”

Make a quick decision about who to be. “Here for the weekend, visiting friends. I go to school in Seattle. They ditched, me, though.” Shrug. “Haven’t seen them in like an hour.”

“Ah, I love Seattle. That’s not an American accent, though.” He smiles, sips beer from a bottle.

“No. I’m Belgian.” Why not.

“Long way from home, eh?” He places the palm of his hand on the brick wall, which allows him to lean in close, as if he were still inside, yelling to be heard over the noise. And here is the warm moisture of his breath against the ear, the face, the neck: laying claim.

“Very long way. It’s better here.” Feels like what a Belgian student playing at being a boy-whore might say in this situation, particularly if he could not see the malice beneath the façade, which he would not. “People are nicer. More open-minded, you know?” Decide to be a man of few words.

“I do.” The man nods as if this is a profoundly true assertion, the open-mindedness of North Americans. He sets his mouth into the slightest pout, looks out from beneath his eyelashes in a way he has clearly rehearsed many times. “You’re gorgeous,” he says. “I’d like to take you home with me.”

And here is a tongue-tip darting out to moisten the lips before raising the cigarette for a luxuriant, slow drag. And here is an expression of bored consideration of his immodest proposal. And here is the French Inhale: out between the parted lips, back in through the flaring nostril, a proven winner, kills them every time (Why do people never do this anymore?). Flick the cigarette away, toss head to move overlong fringe from eyes, though it settles immediately back where it began.

“Not home. But.” Look around, beyond the patio fence, to the places where the light doesn’t reach. “Is there somewhere?” Naturally every inch of nearby space has already been prequalified for dim light, obstruction from public view (or not), escape routes, proximity to other likely rendezvous-spots where anonymous pairs will moan and whisper in the shadows, then stumble away on weak knees. Or sore ones.

And here is a hand on the arm, guiding but with a grip that means business. Here, a gate. Here, a shadowy little alcove half-hidden by a van-sized receptacle containing recycled paperboard. Here, no offensive smells, no visible rodents, and obviously no objection to being half-lead, half-shoved into the space just big enough for two bodies if they are both standing, or if only one of them is kneeling. And here is another brick wall to brace a forearm against as he envelops from behind, urgent grinding of his pelvis, his hand working skillfully, vigourously, at the button and zip of the jeans, reaching inside without asking permission. Ah, but! “How do you like it?” A grunted demand, lips against ear. He is a thoughtful lover, aims to please. He spits into the palm of his hand.

“ _Make me_.”

And here is his growl of delight as he begins to stroke, not exactly kindly. And here is his other hand, fingers twisted round with hair, tugging, moving the head, baring the throat, against which he presses first his lips—briefly—and then, forcefully, his teeth.

And here is a moan of encouragement because it hurts, but not enough.

He strokes more determinedly and the blood has rushed completely away from the heat-riddled, buzzing brain so that there is more sensation than thought—thank god—and here is a hand reaching behind to grip his hip and send a message through touch that says, yes, yes, you are doing exactly the right thing.

“You like it rough, eh?” he mutters and here would be a nod except that the hair-pulling holds the head immobilized.

“Very.” Here is a vague wondering if the accent has slipped, or if he would even notice if it did.

He bites down hard at the base of the neck, beside the shoulder, and here is a groan because it is painful, but really, it should leave a mark. And the hand that has been pulling the hair moves now to seek out a hardened nipple--obvious through the thin, taut fabric of the t-shirt--and pinches tightly between thumb and forefinger, and this is deliciously excruciating.

“You like that. I know because your prick is so fucking hot in my hand,” he mumbles against the throat, and here is a rising sense of revulsion because that was almost a compliment.

And here is an attempt to move his hand from chest to throat, but he goes for the opposite nipple instead; he doesn’t do that stuff, that can kill a person. And here is a voice full of desperate command.

“I said I want you to _make_ me.”

The accent has definitely slipped. But no matter, because here is a flash of the promised brutality as he stops stroking the hot prick to maneuver the body into a position that pleases him (there is not, after all, room for one kneeling, as the feet tucked behind must surely be visible from the pavement), unhooks his belt, and opens his fly all while yanking the head back by the hair so that he is looking down from above into the face half-hidden behind the too-long, Belgian student fringe. And here is a tongue darting out to lick the lips because the sensation of the head being tossed around on the neck is, oh, yes, _much_ more like it.

“I’ll fucking make you suck my big cock,” he says, and here it is, thrusting into the waiting mouth, unrelenting, though if one is being totally honest, he somewhat flatters himself. The hand on the head pulls and pushes, he is craftily cruel and does not give a fuck. And it does feel like a punishment, which is perfect. Hum and groan around him, tamp down the impulse to gag, sense that he is close to finishing the entire performance with a both a whimper _and_ a bang. He does not disappoint, withdrawing the surging cock from the mouth just in time to fire a stream of warm slime onto the cheek and jaw, the bared throat. Here is a vague wish drifting to front of mind that the t-shirt will not be ruined.

Here is a struggle to stand, as he tucks himself back into his trousers and refastens them. And here is a hand reaching to guide his hand back to the hot prick he not long ago seemed quite fond of, and here is the absolute _shock_ of a backhand to the face that rattles the jaw and mashes the lips against the teeth. Here is the metallic, salty taste of blood inside the mouth, which is nearly enough on its own to bring forth the blessed, wretched oblivion of orgasm.

“Fuck off,” he snarls, and turns away. “Thanks.” He is gone.

Here is the face pressed against the bricks and the hand stroking ferociously once, twice, three times, and it is finished. And here is a heaving of nearly-caught breath that devolves into the quick rhythm of stifled sobs as the eyes well with tears and the familiar, inescapable misery washes away all sensation but the ache that starts in the heart but is really everywhere in the body, all at once.

Next time, it should hurt more.

-*-*-*-

TXT from DrJW221B: Sry so l8te. Iff U R awake call me woulld you. Maybe not la8te whre U R ????

Incoming CALL from Donna.

“Sorry.”

John often answers this way, lately.

Donna’s voice is languid, quiet, tinged with concern. “All right, Sweetheart? It’s past one where you are.”

John, half undressed on his bed, barefoot, propped on pillows, keeps his eyes open because when they close, the room starts to spin.

“Sorry. Were you sleeping?”

“No, it’s morning here. Nevermind.” She pauses and John hears her shuffling, shifting, but has no idea what is making the sounds—she could be rearranging a closet, eating breakfast, anything at all, given who she’s going around with. “Your text is a bit messy,” she says knowingly, not accusingly.

“Won’t lie, Donna,” he says, trying to joke, “I’ve had a few.”

“Mm.”

It might have sounded like judgment coming from someone else. John let his eyes close: the inside of his head spun one way, the room spun the other. He clicked off the bedside lamp, kept his eyes open in the faint light coming in the windows from the street. He could hear that Donna had settled, heard her breathing, listening.

“I’m—“ he began. Stopped. “God, it’s just—“ Stopped again. “I keep waiting.” An unfinished thought, a lengthy pause. “Will there ever be just one day—Christ, an hour!—when I don’t miss him?”

Donna’s voice was quiet. “I don’t know, Sweetheart. I hope so.”

“Jesus.”

“Bad day?”

“It’s a month tomorrow since the funeral.”

“I’m sorry.” A general expression of sympathy, but John knew that beneath it was Donna’s guilt that she had not been there, for him. John assured her that he didn’t mind, he understood, wouldn’t have asked it of her. But she still apologized again and again, took all his calls, answered his texts and emails right away. She was trying to make up for it.

“Mrs Hudson bought a bush.”

“What now?”

“A plant. For the grave. She wants me to go with her tomorrow and plant it.”

“You don’t want to?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been back since we buried him. I hate the place. His name on that black stone.”

“Might do you good, go and have a talk with him.”

“He’s not there,” John said, and it sounded scolding, contemptuous.

Donna backed off, chastened. “No,” she allowed.

“Sorry.”

“You’re all right,” she instantly forgave him. Then, gently: “Called your therapist yet?”

“Yes,” he lied.

“Give me her number. I’ll call and arrange it.”

“Yeah, I’ll have to get it from my old phone. I’ll text it to you. Tomorrow.”

They both knew he wouldn’t.

-*-*-*-

Needs: decent toothpaste, new ear things for the music thing, a pistol, fountain pen (Cross or Montblanc), pyjamas made from NATURAL fibers for the love of all that is holy, Cadbury Flake (3), and laboratory-grade heroin.

Wants: See above, and add a cup of tea.

The fixer is American, young, female, and skittish. From the first list, she came across only with French crossword puzzles (who would want such a thing? Naturally, it was only requested to see how far the fixer will go to accommodate) and the business card of a very expensive escort service (which, of the two, she assumed was the joke). Hence, a second request for the gun, pyjamas, and heroin. The rest is new.

The safe house in Fiji is in a high-rise full of mostly-vacant timeshare condominiums. It is tackily decorated in a nineteen-haties pastel seashell motif, and the bed is so short as to clearly have been intended for children. The beach is forbidden. The swimming pool is permitted only between midnight and seven a.m., with armed guard in attendance, which makes the swim that much more relaxing. The shower runs hot for less time than is required, and the light in the bath is barely adequate for shaving (the razors, too, are subpar, and in four days there have been three different ones tried). The food is nothing but fish and fruit, so the trousers are becoming loose.

Talking of trousers, gone are the tight jeans and rock-n-roll t-shirts of Vancouver in favour of cream-coloured linen everything, the Raj on holidays, even though inside the condo there is no one to appreciate the disguise. Gone, too, the Gothic-student dyejob and over-emotional hairdo. Sun-kissed, shaggy blonde, sideburns!, a beach bum to the manor born, and the energy to protest against any of this is absolutely nonexistent in this humidity. The gentle Melanesian breeze wafts all cares away. Or so it would seem.

The knock at the door is not the prescribed one, and so it must be the impatiently-awaited one. Damp from the shower, garbed in a white bathrobe belted loosely, with a third glass of whiskey (heroin placeholder) well underway, a peep through the hole, and what have we here. Needs: to be maltreated, defeated, and—if at all possible--deleted. Wants: a masterful hand. Gets: a college dropout in a soldier costume.

In he marches, and he is one-hundred-and-one-percent of everything. Jaw a perfect-plus square; eyes blue to the tenth; body—even in clothes—like a Roman statue, and no doubt as hard as the marble that makes them. The clothes a passable mock-up of a nonspecific dress uniform, undecorated, but they don’t give medals for those things at which he likely excels, now, do they? Lean back against the closed door in a slightly-drunken swoon, and just look.

“They told you--?”

He nods but does not reply, does not move. Only stands, expectant.

“Oh, the money! It’s on the table there.” Gesture to glass-topped coffee table he is likely considering as a place to bend a client over, if he’s a professional, which the agency assured he is. But, god, he is so, so young. Push the thought away; a dilemma for another, better man to worry over.

He does not move for the pile of cash, but its presence clicks the switch and instantly he is on the clock. “You’ll call me ‘Sir,’ when you address me.” His accent is faintly German, pinch me, it’s Christmas. Tomorrow belongs to him, of that there is no doubt.

“Oh, will I?”

“On your knees—“

Knees hit the floor before he has finished the thought that impelled him to utter the words.

“—soldier.”

“No.” Shake head, finish whiskey. “You’re the soldier.”

“So what does that make you?” He steps closer, grips fistful of hair, rolls head around on neck and now we’ve made a start, soldier.

Gesture widely with both hands (robe is slipping off shoulders now, threatening to fall away completely and expose the rotten core). “Clearly, I’m a prisoner.”

“All right, then. You call me ‘Sir,’ and I’ll call you—“

“Don’t call me anything. I haven’t got a name anymore.” He has moved his hand from the hair to grip the chin, the jaw, examining the merchandise. In a quick motion he reaches into his jacket and produces a slip of paper and a pen.

“Write down your safe word, Darling,” he says, in a less commanding, civilian voice.

Take the paper and pen, scribble, fold it up, hand it back. “And none of that. There’s but one man on the whole of the earth allowed a pet name, and you are not him.” He slips the paper onto the table near the money, unread, which probably defeats the purpose of having it, but which matters not at all since there is nothing to read but a doodle of a hand gesture that has only one interpretation, effective in many languages. The house is safe, let the body be free of the burden of safety, just for an hour.

“By the way, have you got a gun?”

He shakes his head, eyebrows knitting slightly. “Of course not.”

“No, they won’t give me one, either. At any rate. That’s a generous pile of cash.” And what follows will be the last demand made until the big hand swings around again to the twelve:

“Make it hurt.”

Instantly, his hand grabs the hair and he starts to move, marching away, forcing a scramble to follow. Knees and shins burnt by the carpet, the robe falls away (never said _natural_ blonde. . .).  His other hand grabs the upper arm and he tosses the body down and away, into a corner. He points to a spot on the floor. Kneel there obediently. Into the lining of the jacket once more and out comes a black leather glove.

“Eyes down.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Chin up.”

He is a professional, after all.

Three rapid-fire slaps to the face, the sharp chemical smell of the leather as it flashes across causing neurons to fire that signal pleasure, an instant before the pain breaks through, and it is exquisite. The eyes sting and tears threaten.

“mmmmmore. . .”

“No one told you to talk.” A slap. “You will call me, ‘Sir;’ have you forgotten already?” Another slap. The leather, now warm, wants to caress the cheek and give comfort. Yank face away. This is a one-way street, have you forgotten already? He gathers up another fistful of hair, jerks the head as he steps behind. The free hand reaches down and clamps down on the nipple until a strangled whine emerges from the throat.

“Hands behind your back.”

“Why should I make it easy for you? Sir.” The desired response: he wrestles the arms back, pushes the torso forward until the face is pressed to the floor, pins the arms with his knee. The leather-clad fingers are pressing against the mouth now, invading. Lick and suck them. Good dog.

The gloved hand moves down, down, and there is pressure against the opening, testing. Exhale a great sigh.

“Do you like it?” he inquires rhetorically.

“I don’t want to like it.”

Hand in the hair raises the head, smashes the face down onto the floor. Thank you, Sir. Bless you, Sir.

Fingers shove in. It is no loving act, a vaguely unpleasant business transaction. He gives a theatrical moan, jackhammers the hand. A starburst of agony behind closed eyes. He raises the head again, leans his face close, mutters through gritted teeth. “Does it hurt?”

“Not enough.”

 He smashes the face down again, on the other side, careful not to break the nose or do other lasting damage. He adds another finger, pushes harder, faster. Let out a growling shout with each thrust. He hums with satisfaction. A few more rough strokes and he yanks his fingers out, strips off the glove, looms above. He tosses the glove down on the floor.

“Lick it.”

No, no, no. This will not do. Humiliation is not pain enough, is not the kind of pain that is sought. Look up into his face, which is flushed from effort and (probably) arousal. But his heart is not in it, not really. He still wants it to feel good.

“Does your wife know what you do for a living?”

His face flushes positively crimson; his eyes narrow dangerously. His chest heaves.

“What did you just say?”

“Your wife.” Let it linger a half-moment. “Sir.” The air is thick with the threat of violence. “Later this evening will she be sucking on the fingers that just—“

His fist comes crashing, bending the nose, splitting the lip. The head leads the body backward to the floor. Blood is running down the throat, down the face. The pain lingers and changes:  burning, stabbing, throbbing in time with the racing pulse. He is grabbing up the pile of cash (it really is generous, he’ll see when he counts it; he can take his wife to dinner). He leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Call after him: “My safe word is Doctor John Watson of 221B Baker Street, by the way.” Laugh until it turns to weeping.

-*-*-*-

The Blog of John H Watson:

New Year’s morning. Mood: ehmmm. . . Privacy setting: FRIENDS ONLY

Happy New Year, is what is generally said on the first of January, so today I say it to you, Gentle Reader—if you are still reading—I know it’s been a while.

Went as D’s date last night to the wedding of G & B. True to form, D complained about: “Who has their wedding on New Year’s Eve?! G’s a mate, I love her, make no mistake, but god it’s so selfish.” But in the end she was, as ever, the life of the thing. She was a bridesmaid (ye gods, what a hat! I’ll have to find a link to a photo) so Your Humble Narrator spent the night at the singles’ table.

D: _[earlier, fixing up my necktie]_ You look gorgeous _[D is an exceptionally generous friend]_. Let’s don’t lead with being a lonely widower, though, shall we?

J: I don’t lead with it. _[of course, unfailingly, I do]_

D: _[withering look. Honestly! I withered.]_ No long-term relationship ever began with pity sex, Sweetheart.

In the event, I didn’t have to lead with being a widower, having a bad leg, having been shot, any of it, because I’d met the lovely M twice before at some of D’s mates’ parties and whatnot. Apparently she had an eye out for me, and having recently become free of a prior engagement, appears to have put her real number into my phone. She even paid for breakfast. I’d like to say we’ll see how it goes, but of course, I already know that it does not “go.”

It’s nearly three months now and I still sometimes make his cuppa and call him to it, before I remember.

I’m thinking of asking D to marry me.

-*-*-*-

The Southern Hemisphere’s charming reversal of the seasons means unending winter. The Auckland safe house is in a drab flat in a drab suburb with a drab view of a really sensationally beautiful lake. Of course not. A parking structure.

Not that the window is ever approachable from a distance nearer than about six feet, as the second-shift guard (threats on the rise, the reputation precedes!) sits or leans on its ledge, by turns burning holes with his gaze into the back of the head (hair newly shorn and combed northward, unexpectedly left to its natural shade, which no living man would recognize as such) and looking at something on his little notepad computer thing (probably gonzo, boy-girl pornography; he has much to overcompensate for). He is SAS, though to have drawn this lot from the jobs bin he clearly is not favoured. His militarily precise haircut and compact, muscular body feel familiar, but he is definitively marked out as a No Fly Zone. There is no friendly banter, though we have been colleagues lo these fifty-three days, except for him to express contempt.

“You’re insufferable,” says he, in reaction to an attempt to engage in conversation about the notepad computer thing and what he might be looking at. “Shut it.”

Feign a shocked expression. Morph to wounded, yet determined. Long-suffering, but with a can-do spirit which will surely triumph. Mildred Pierce as international fugitive.

“Do you always have to look so fuckin’ nelly?” he snarls.

Flutter the hand to the chest. _Who, me? Well I never_.

“Fuck off, smart arse,” is the closest he will ever come to Wildean repartee.

Hmph.

After less than a minute, all is forgiven. “Make us some coffee, why don’t you?”

He forgets the wilting lily before him is not his girlfriend, happy to hop-to when so ordered. (Of course, he does not actually _have_ a girlfriend, given that no girl has to offer what he really wants, which is—of course—The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name; it’s written all over his face, his pumped-up physique, the cut of his trousers). Do not make the slightest move toward the kitchen though there is something about the forcefulness of the request which stirs the loins toward doing as he says, anything he says, Yes Dear, Yes Dear, Whatever you want Dear, Can I freshen your cocktail, or would you prefer to eat my ass first?

Redirect: “Can I hold your gun?”

He guffaws. “Fucking no you can’t hold my fucking gun.”

Yes Dear.

Arrange a comely pout, saunter closer to him than ever has been previously dared. He is sitting on the window ledge with his feet on a desk chair—one on the seat, one on the arm. Settle prettily on the edge of the chair.

“Piss off,” says he, “You’re acting queer to wind me up.”

“Darling, it’s no act.” He sneers, but neither pushes nor pulls away. He wears the gun in a shoulder holster. Naturally that tingle of fingertips across the nipple on the way to the handle of the weapon is merely incidental, signifying nothing. Skim fingers over the grip of the gun—this could be you!—and widen lately-brown eyes soulfully. “Have you ever shot anyone?”

He is hesitant, but something is in the air—not love, surely, but the smell is similar—and his thighs move apart just the slightest bit, blink and you’ll miss it, an invitation, permission. Yes Dear.

“What’s it like, firing a gun? Just let me hold it; I’m _so_ bored.” Unsnap the strap of the holster, move the hand to fully surround the grip. The sleight-of-hand artist’s trick: look over here, not over there, where the other hand is starting a slow slide up his thigh. “Can you not just at least _show_ it to me?” Double entendre worthy of a noir classic. _Fifty-three tension-filled evenings in a government safe house. . .it can only end in bloody murder. Or true love._

He relents, reaches across his chest (hard nipples showing through the fabric of his oh-so-hetero army-issue blouse), slides the gun out of the holster, displays it, pointing nowhere. Gasp/moan in appreciation. It’s so _big_!

Stroke the gun barrel suggestively with one hand while the other goes to work on the zip of his trousers. Why would he object? He’s the one holding the gun. Another dewy-eyed look—amn’t I pretty?—and the hand slips into the open fly, begins to stroke. He drops his head back, looking up toward the ceiling, probably closing his eyes. He can pretend to pretend it’s a girl’s slim-fingered hand on him. On his gun. But we know better, don’t we, what our hero is really thinking.

With silent powers of persuasion, the trousers come fully open and are yanked downward, and certainly no girlfriend has ever appreciated his manhood in quite this way before, as the mouth stretches gratefully around and takes him deeply inside, one hand gripping, stroking, to make up the difference. The other hand caresses below, the skin of his scrotum tightening appreciatively at being attended to. Keep the voice out of it; it does tend to give one away.

His breath is heaving—by the way, where is the gun?—and one of his hands goes to the back of the neck, pulling, urging. Yes Dear, Anything you want Dear. Now he is fully engaged, and the air is ripe with opportunity.

“You like that?” Quiet, a near-whisper, could be anyone’s voice.

He groans, hums affirmation.

“You like it when a man sucks your cock?” Ladies and Gentlemen, may I direct your attention?

“Shh,” he says, pushes the head down. Gratify the request momentarily, lick the fingertips while we’re at it, in preparation for the approaching _grande finale_. But first, there is some stage business.

“You like it because you’re a queer like me.” Full voice. There’s no mistaking that there might be a girl in this scene. That’s a wrap on the leading lady.

“Shut up.” Slide the mouth down around him again, then up again.

“Or what?”

“Shut up, faggot, or I’ll fucking smack the piss out of you.”

Bravo!

His hand guides—forces? Is it forcing even when the answer is Yes Dear, Yes Dear, Beat me Dear, Kill me Dear?—the head so the mouth can return to its work. Sister, they don’t call this a “job” for nothing. And you know what they say about introducing a gun in the first act. . .

Meanwhile, in fairyland.

The mouth sucks and licks greedily, though the appreciative, baritone groans are probably an unwanted distraction, taking our leading man out of the moment. Don’t let him lose his motivation or the whole scene fizzles. Gotta leave ‘em gasping, begging for more! The spit-slicked fingers caress the rounded measure of his manliness, then slide downward, seeking, finding, and oh, yes, penetrating. Don’t see much of that in your boy-girl videos, now, do you Dear?

The reaction is quick and decisive. He roars, “Oh no you fucking don’t!” and the flat of the gun cradled in his hand smacks down hard against the side of the head, the face, rattling the teeth in the skull, and one arranges oneself prettily in a heap on the floor, sure to keep the newly-reddened face turned toward the camera. “Fucking faggot, I’ll kill you!” A kick in the gut, unexpected, takes all the wind out, and another, a burst of white light behind the eyes, the vision wanting to close down because the blood is rushing away from the brain and all is sensation, all is pain. At last! Thought we’d never get to the payoff, the plot did wander a bit. He straddles the chest. His hand crashes down and grips the throat, raises the head, slams it down. The veins stand out on his sweaty forehead. His erection still bobs between his thighs. Can I help you with that, Dear? Slams the head down again, and unconsciousness looms. Don’t spit out the blood, just part the lips and let it run. Make it pretty, we want to get it all in one take.

He holds the throat down with one hand, aims the barrel of the gun right between the eyes, resting the muzzle at the bridge of the nose. If only he had one more hand free to twirl his mustache! Tied to the tracks, and here comes the express.

Ah, but the cavalry rides in!

The door flies open and here is another, bigger gun (doesn’t it always come down to Whose Is Bigger?), aimed at our leading man, a Brando-type bad man all the girls want and all the boys want to be, who immediately stands down, turns his back, hides his shame in his trousers. And behind the bearer of the bigger gun, a surprise special guest star—now here’s a plot twist!—in the form of an overweight, overbearing ninny with an umbrella hooked over one arm. Gather oneself up to kneeling: resolute, undefeated, ready for the close-up. Elegantly dab blood from the corner of the lips with one delicate motion of the ring finger.

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, what _have_ you done?”

No one in the world but poor, put-upon, elder brother Mycroft could observe the current tableau and so immediately place the blame squarely where it belongs.

“We’re moving you to Norway.”

I’ll be in my dressing room.

-*-*-*-

TXT from DrJW221B: Will you be home right after work? We need to talk.

TXT from Donna: I will be, yes. Are you all right?

TXT from DrJW221B: Not really.

The Blog of John H Watson:

Tuesday. Mood: pissed off. Privacy settings: PRIVATE

First I’ll acknowledge that yes, of course, This Is What I Get for poking around in things that were never meant for my eyes. Boundaries, privacy, all that. Yes, I get it. We’ll flog me later.

Donna left her email logged in before she went to work, on my laptop. Things will catch the eye even in the fifteen seconds it takes to click “Log out.” And what catches my eye but the latest in a (LONG!) chain of flirty emails between Donna and some bloke. Three months married, Christ, I know it was not ideal the way it started but I thought we were doing all right. And I trust her, is the thing. She is the only person left on earth that I trust (my therapist noted “trust issues continue” just last visit!), and look where it’s gotten me. I feel like a damned idiot.

Nothing overt, no “I wish we were together,” no “I want to leave my husband,” nothing graphic, but certainly there was a _tone_ present which should not be present in emails between just-friends. My emails with Donna, back when, never had this tone. And there were things in there that I never heard about, things about her life, her day. Nothing earth shaking, but still, shouldn’t I be the first person she tells her trivia to? Isn’t that what we’re playing at here—we’re a team, we’re partners, she’s my fucking wife and if I find out who this man is I swear I will shoot him in the fucking face.

No. Obviously, I will not shoot him. But I am SO. ANGRY. And even more riling is the fact I’m not entirely sure I’ve a right to be angry, because if our marriage was a way of admitting defeat, do we still promise ‘til death do us part? I suppose we should have made these agreements explicit, but who knew she was going to start up with another man? Or he start up with her and her follow along, whichever. Donna will be home around seven. By seven fifteen, we will be having our first real marital argument. I’m going to have a drink to steady me while I wait.

***

11:45pm. Fucking exhausting. Could happily never do that marital argument thing again.

Confronted Donna with the emails. First, recriminations from Donna as above about privacy, boundaries, etc. Could not tell if she was really angry about the disregard for her privacy or at being caught out, seemed like both. After that, I yelled a lot about her cruel disregard for my feelings when she knows I struggle with trusting anyone (poor, broken me!) and look what’s she doing, sneaking behind my back when all she really had to do was say, I’m interested in looking elsewhere and we could have talked through it. Donna yelled a lot about always taking care of me and how she’s been happy to do it but once in a while would it kill me to carry her for a bit? Maybe she needs someone to be there for her now and then, to make her feel taken care of.

Obviously, she had a point, but that didn’t stop me from trying to argue her out of it. So this other fella takes better care of her? Is that what she’s saying? No, he’s just easy. He’s fun and makes me laugh. I make you laugh, we laugh all the time. It’s different with him.

At this point, we broke for dinner and retired to separate corners to brood.

The next round was quieter, So who is he. Just someone I met online, friend of a friend. Do I know him? I don’t think so, he’s in Wales. Christ, thrown over for a Welshman. We both laughed at that, so things seemed not utterly hopeless. Apologies all ‘round for the yelling, then me for snooping and Donna for “emotional infidelity.” Then promises from her to end it, and from me not to snoop, and from both of us to look a little more closely at all these issues it has illuminated, because really, we’re still a team, right? We want this to work like a real, actual marriage, don’t we? Sometimes I don’t know. Do we? I don’t know either.

Here’s the bit They’ll be talking about for years to come, when this blog is unearthed and They try to figure out the whole “human” thing (or at least the whole “221B Baker Street” thing). Three hours in, and finally things seem essentially resolved, or at least enough that we won’t go to bed angry (an aside: in fact, we went to bed and had absolutely fantastic sex—she’s sleeping it off now—I haven’t had “make-up sex” since med school and whyever not? I’ll be looking for things to fight about, henceforth), and it’s a quiet couple of minutes, we’re on the sofa together and I’m sort of mulling over the whole settled-for-each-other thing we sort of never talk about, or only make jokes about, or toss aside when it starts to be inconvenient.

So I take her hand and I say, “I’m sorry I can’t ever be the man you really wanted.”

And her face. It was remarkable, smiling, crying, I can’t do it justice. . .and she says, “I could say the same to you.”

I am utterly, utterly shattered.

-*-*-*-

Norway is, as ever, a frozen Hell. The safe house, god, not even worth describing except to say, “mid-century American motor lodge,” comes to mind when one is within its damp, textured walls. The bruises on the throat and the broken rib courtesy of Our Man in Auckland are mostly healed now, as a few weeks have passed, and the sad postscript is that his outrageous breach of duty and nearly innumerable missteps in his dealings with the prisoner—sorry, the _asset under protection_ —landed him in military prison. No doubt he will find many a friend among the gentlemen confined therein.

Something interesting has occurred! A man—well, not a man, _per se_ —washed up on the beach nearby and damned if They didn’t imprison him—sorry again, meant to say, _take him into protective custody_ —just next door! What a puzzle he was, until the handlers and fixers and one senior agent who has a very constipated, Mycroft-Holmesian air about him were exhausted into spilling the beans about him being, oh, hundreds of years old, from some far-off planet that seems not to exist anymore, and this little blue phone box of his. . .well.

_It’s bigger on the inside, innit._

He’s called the Doctor (not that kind) and he is a skinny pipsqueak know-it-all who is making a go for the all-galaxy moping record (commentary from the peanut gallery about who else could be described thus is as tiresome as it is unwelcome). Small world(s); he knows John’s friend, the very one that John met on DateABoringDoctor.com or whatever it’s called. He has a room that is impossible to find, and he is shut up in it, sighing, while “waiting for tech” to fix some broken aspect of the blue box.

Ah, but there is a lab inside the thing! The atrophying brain has a challenge before it at last, thanks to some of the Doctor’s blood on a handkerchief, and the days rush past as the genes are untangled into an impossibly beautiful sequence which will never see the light of day because some secrets must be kept, for love of queen and country. Still, it passes the time.

The lab door crashes open and, “Is this the--?”

Old cocky Young lonely **amazing coat** white teeth **SOLDIER** sticky-uppy hair Holster **Pistol** shoes _distracting_ Sad **smells like sex** _watch-not-a-watch_ Shoulders **war veteran?** On a Mission **_futurepastfuturepastfuturepast_** Suspenders?

“Hello,” he says, and smiles, and intrudes. He is magnificent.

Melt into puddle of ooze on floor.

Cock eyebrow, add the condescending, patently-false grin. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the Doctor. But it can wait.” He leans on one elbow on the lab bench, wrinkling one of history’s most perfect, most glorious graphs. “Captain Jack Harkness.”

American; how exotic. A soldier (with a gun). Oh, you lucky thing.

Lean back, cross arms in front of chest, affecting a casual annoyance (also: hides sudden tremor in hands). He smells even better up close.

He prompts, “And you are?”

“Nobody anymore.” He takes this in his stride, merely moves his head to indicate interest in hearing more. Not easily shocked, this one, he’s seen it all before.  Lean close, faux conspiratorial. “They’re hiding me.”

“Well, They’ll do that.” His smile is grotesque in its beauty. He pats the top of a metallic box thing that looks like a piece of an engine or something similarly irrelevant. “I’m delivering the tech. The Doctor’s an old friend.” And clearly by “old friend,” he means, “someone into whose pants I am desperate to get.” How is this clear? Nonetheless.

“Good luck to you, finding him.”

“He’ll find me, when he realizes this thing is here at last. He’s not one to linger; he’ll be wanting to get off.”

Is he real? He can’t be real.

Narrow eyes purposefully. “Will he.”

He laughs. “That didn’t come out exactly the way I meant it.” He braces himself with his palms on the bench and jumps up to sit on the lovely graph.

“Didn’t it.”

Return gaze to the computer screen, reach for pen to make a mark in the notebook, hand still trembling.

“Are you an alien, too, then?” Must discover what is to be dealt with. Could be anything inside those gabardine trousers.

“Nope. Are you?”

“Many assume so. But no.”

He is studied off-the-cuff-casual, tossing a small paperweight from hand to hand. “So the TARDIS made this lab for you?”

Shoot him a questioning look.

“She’s a very accommodating old girl. Tunes in to your desires and makes you comfortable.”

Weigh this. It’s true that one day there was a sofa where the previous night there had not been one; the prospect of leaving for the day only to return after a brief sleep seemed a waste of time and energy.

“I suppose so, then.”

He leans in close, sharing a secret. “She’s made me a room. . .” raises his eyebrows. “It’s really something. You should come see it.”

Really? _Come up and see me sometime?_ And why is it working?

Sublimate from solid into vapour and float to the ceiling.

Shrug slightly. “I’m very busy.”

He leaps from the bench, enrobed in his shifting cloud of pheromones. As he makes for the door, raise head and ask, “What is that smell, by the way?”

He looks quizzical, hand on the doorknob.

“That smell, your cologne. The smell of you.”

“You like it? It’s called charisma.” He winks, turns the knob, is out the door.

Manage to stay seated for three full seconds.

His room is, as promised, _really something_ , decorated in a style best described as Luxe Debauchery, with a bed big enough for four (five, if they are friendly, which one assumes they would be) as its centerpiece, and regardless of what form one's interpretation of a "good time" may take, surely the suitable _accoutrements_ to fulfill it are in ready supply. A glittering array of glass bottles arranged on floor-to-ceiling mirrored shelves promise all manner of intoxicants; a veritable pharmacy of mind- and mood-altering drugs are prettily displayed in cut-glass bowls; and at the foot of the bed, a massive, elaborately carved wooden chest, the contents of which one can only assume. Or dream of.

He has taken off the amazing, long, wool overcoat but somehow looks even more soldierly in just his dark blue trousers and pale blue woven shirt. The ring of his white undershirt visible beneath the open collar is crazymaking. Take a step closer to him, actively resist urge to fall on knees and lick the highly polished black sheen of his shoes. Clearly, it is _so_ much more than mere charisma.

Shake it off, or try to, for what have we here? Accented beautifully by soft-focus lighting, now and then glinting as the shadows shift (but how are there shadows with no windows? The blue box really is a clever girl.), a metal rack simply brimming with beautiful, terrible devices ranging from the mildly injurious to the decidedly fatal. Catch the breath. Flush with something much more akin to relief than arousal. For here are knives, needles, scalpels, a sword. Here is a cane, a rod, a club, a good old-fashioned metal pipe. Here, a crop. A whip. A cigarette lighter. A branding iron. An endless array of ways to quiet the brain; to override the nagging ache of the acidic, shrinking heart; to for god's sake _end it_.

Tamp down urge to thrust a bare, open hand into bowl full of broken glass, and twist. Instead, select a particularly pretty shard and lift it to the light. Turn toward him with a sure impression that the face is lit up with delight, for the mouth waters and the body thrums with desire--not for him, alone.

But the look on his face is a mixture of suspicion, startlement, and something horrendous like compassion.

"Ah." His face betrays him and a deduction is easily made. "You've never seen this before."

He shakes his head, once.

"It--she--put this here just now." Look back at it: a way to salvation, a looming threat. "For me."

He nods.

Pass the jagged triangle of bluish glass from hand to hand, testing the edges with fingertips.

"I'm up for anything," he says with a slight shrug and a faint (forced?) smile. "If that's what you really want."

He still thinks it's about sex, because this whole room is about sex. But desire, of course, takes many forms. In the presence of a blade or blunt instrument, the body has but one desire, and it has nothing to do with sex. Drift a moment on a daydream of the cane in his large, capable hands, the strength of his shoulders as he swings. No. Something closer, more intimate. A knife. A scalpel. Something that exposes, penetrates, creates an aroma and releases heat.

Shudder.

There is a troubling lack of true danger on the wind, though, so the time has come to raise the stakes. Say: "You remind me of someone." He raises his eyebrows. "He's a soldier, too." There is a pause; he is unsure where to go from there. He redirects.

"It's quite a collection," he comments, as if it has been curated. Suppose, in a sense, it has been.

"An idle mind is the devil's playground, or so they say." Gesture with the hand not holding the shard of glass. "And my mind has been terribly idle."

For a moment his face is magnificently easy to read; every nuance of the assembling thought causes a twitch, a miniscule rearrangement. The moment passes; he is obscure again.

"Whatever you've done," he says gravely, too kindly. "It doesn't deserve this."

Oh, no? Challenge accepted.

"I destroyed a man's life. Destroyed his whole world."

He steps closer. His shoulders could carry the weight of stars.

"We do what we have to."

Tilt the shard of glass so one pointed corner presses--just so--against the pad of the thumb, making a divot, not cutting.

"Nonetheless, as a destroyer of worlds, If I'm to go on, I should be punished."

"I don't believe that," he says. He takes it in his turn, now, to be the one to raise the stakes: "Neither do you."

Rake the edge of the glass sliver across the outer wrist--merely a scratch--then the inner. His fingers twitch but his hands stay at his sides.

"Whether I do or don't believe it is irrelevant. My lot is to be in pain as long as I am alive. And since I must stay alive if I'm ever to get back. . ." Shrug shoulders slightly. The gesture finishes the thought. Feel uncomfortably insubstantial, incorporeal. The wind of his breath could blow the body to pieces, to molecules.

He steps still closer. Nostrils tingle at the changing--earthier, amber-gold--scent of him.

He reaches out and gently persuades the shard of glass out of the hands, returns it home. "A distraction," he says, "That's all this is." He indicates the rack of lovely horrors. His eyes are shimmering, centuries old, and hold the gaze despite a determination not to be held--gazewise, or otherwise.

Throat is suddenly lined with cotton-wool, chest full of wing-beating birds. Lips tremble and refuse to stay shut. (. . _.what is he?. . .)_ "He made me better." Shut up, you blithering idiot. "He made me real."

"Everything you ever were, you still are. You just have to remind yourself." HIs face is such a strange, compelling blend of tragedy and wantonness symphonies could be written about it, and probably have.

When was the upper hand lost? The body trembles, top to toe. Long to be killed. He has a gun. He could do it.

“You remind me of someone, too, you know,” he says soberly. His eyes scan down, up again. Shiver.

Bring out the parlour trick; it may yet be possible to get his legs out from under him. "I remind you of someone who destroyed a whole world, but who you long for."

He nods, face so serious, so improbable.

"Someone you'd die for." Step closer to him. "Someone you'd kill for." The scent of him is earnestness, heroism, tinged with shame. "Someone who makes you better."

"Yes."

"Someone who makes you real."

He is the tense, hair-bristling moment before the lightning strike.

Unbutton the jacket. An invitation. A proposal. 

He is the clap of thunder.

Immediately, he closes in, slides a strong hand inside the jacket, around the side of the body to land in the small of the back. Hand under chin, and his mouth crash-lands; the taste of him is as intoxicating as his scent. Lick his tongue. Cradle sides of his face in palms of hands. He pushes the jacket back off the shoulders, starts to work at the shirt buttons, still kissing.

He leans back to look at the now-bared chest, runs broad-fingered hands over the abdomen, which flinches with pleasure beneath his touch. Suck in breath, let eyes close. Knees so weak it is miraculous to be upright at all.

He is near again, lips against the ear. “I want to—“

“Yes. Everything. Anything. Yes.”

And he begins to kiss, methodically, lazily, everywhere, for hours, days, forever. From mouth to jaw to throat; shoulder to inner elbow to wrist; heart-pounding chest, flinching abdomen, and at long last the waiting, willing mouth again as his hands take their time unfastening the trousers, letting them fall.

“You’re stunning,” he whispers against one closed eye, warm breath and lips on eyelashes, and a tear hovers there ( _. . .why? how?. . ._ ). Lingers. Drops.

“I’m nothing.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I’m cruel. I’m--" (. . .???. . .) " _rancid_.”

“Shh.” Comforting, not hushing. He is enormous, a wall made of stone stretched over with skin, and he is as strong as ten men. He carries the shivering, electrified body easily to his enormous bed and lays it down like an offering on an altar. He undresses; he is transfixing, impossible. He stretches out and the warmth radiates from his flesh. He strokes every place he has formerly kissed with the tips of his fingers: face, throat, chest, arms.

“I want—“

“Yes.”

He is moving, gliding down, a body followed by trailing hands, and he pauses at the crease between hip and thigh and inhales deeply. Rake fingers through his hair, vaguely wish it were possible to do all things at once, and ceaselessly. The body is surging, hyper-responsive to every touch and kiss and breath. His lips and tongue are clever, make no false moves, and heat radiates from pelvis outward, blurs the brain’s chatter into a blissful, nonsensical haze. Rock hips up to meet his mouth, his hand as it strokes, and all is sensation, every thought blown away.

“Please. . .” and guide his face away with one hand, indicate motion; roll, rise, wait, breath held.

He leans away momentarily, then there is something all at once warm and cool and wet and slick. Lean into the sensation, release held breath with a long, low moan. Shudder. Wait.

Of course the feeling is overwhelming, edge-of-too-much, but then he begins to move and there is nothing else, nothing but his hips rocking, his enormous hands grasping the hips, his voice rumbling low in his throat as he groans and sighs. Reach down to stroke and know the finish is imminent, pause, press hips back wantonly against him as he moves, stroke again. Then again. Then again. He leans across the back, whispers beside the ear, “You’re exquisite.” Another stroke, the swelling anticipation of the moment and then the moment itself like the crashing of a wave. Obliteration.

He responds by moving more urgently, breath heaving, yanking the pelvis against him; his fingertips will leave bruises. He finishes with a shout and a shudder, moves slowly away and collapses onto the bed with a gusty, satisfied sigh.

Grab his face in both hands and snake tongue into his mouth, desperate, stroking his torso and arms and arse and neck with greedy fingers. Want to touch him everywhere, want it all again, now, right away, don’t stop, because nothing hurts, not even the heart.

“What _are_ you?”

He doesn’t answer. How would such a question ever be answered, in any event?

Lay head on his chest, settle in under the crook of his arm, and it is so familiar except that it is all wrong.

"Let go of the pain; he wouldn't want that for you," he says quietly. "Your soldier."

“He doesn’t know I’m alive.”

“I’ve heard the expression, but honestly, I can’t say I relate.” A gentle joke, tension-breaker.

“It's already been so long. And anyway.” Shift, try to get away, it’s too much. Time to go. “I’m broken.”

“We all are.”

Sit up, plant feet on floor. Head drops into hands; it is so very heavy.

He sits up, embraces the body, which is quivering, though the room is not cold. He whispers against the side of the face, “You’re remarkable. I’m sorry I’m the wrong soldier.”

Stand quickly, fetch clothes, step into trousers and fasten them up. Look into his film-star face, his ancient eyes that twinkle with sadness.

“And I’m sorry I’m the wrong skinny genius in a good suit.”

He smiles.

“Take care of yourself,” he says, and it is not a platitude, not just a thing people say to each other when one of them is leaving the other forever.

Weigh it up. Decide, for once, not to lie--not even a little--because what would be the point?

“I’ll try.”

 

-END-


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